world made new
by shadows and sunshine
Summary: You don't forget, but you don't think about it every waking minute; that's just how it has to be if you ever want to survive.' Five girls from Harry's year at Hogwarts and their lives after the war. -series of one-shots: chapter three, hannah abbott-
1. Pansy Parkinson

So, this is going to be another chaptered story about the girls in Harry's year at Hogwarts and their lives following the war. This comes from the Song Quote Challenge from (yes, you guessed it!) the HPFC forum. My quote was, "I tried so hard not to think of you." The title comes from a quote by Henry Miller. The first chapter is Pansy Parkinson. Enjoy!

_world made new_

_chapter one: pansy parkinson_

i.

It's hard being a Slytherin after the war, Pansy reflects. She walks down the street, suspicious glances and whispers, and she wonders if there's a huge, blinking snake emblem on her chest that would alert them to the fact that she was Slytherin.

There's nothing there that would attract their gazes, but some just can't look away. They stare at her with unblinking eyes and she can't figure out why. Others avert their gazes, dropping their stares to the cobblestone floor and flushing with embarrassment.

It's hard to manage, just walking down the street to be greeted in such a way. Pansy hasn't done anything to deserve this—yes, she's a Slytherin, but they sorted all of the House stereotypes out _ages _ago, didn't they? Maybe her much-regretted outburst before the battle has spread quickly, but she doesn't imagine it could have. Maybe it's just the fact that she _is _a Slytherin, and even though she's grown up and holding a steady job now, there's no 'was' about it.

She might believe that, but not everyone is defined by what House they were in. Once you're out in the world on your own, 'Gryffindor,' 'Ravenclaw,' and 'Hufflepuff' are interchangeable. By that point you're beyond inter-House rivalries and mocking.

And yet.

Pansy is a Slytherin—is, not was—and nobody seems close to forgetting it anytime soon; green and silver seem to reflect off her with ease, and everyone seems to _know. _Just innately, as if she had a Dark Mark tattooed on her forearm.

Maybe the two are interchangeable, in their minds at least. The worst part of that notion is that it's completely understandable.

ii.

One person that doesn't seem to care is Justin, and he's perhaps the most unlikely candidate at all. After all, he's Muggle-born, and he'd be righteously angry if he had told her in no uncertain terms to leave when she'd showed up on his doorstep.

But he doesn't. Instead mild surprise colors his face and her steps aside to allow her entrance. She looks around the flat—it's a mess, all a number of papers scattered everywhere and books open on the tables and the floor with notes scrawled in the margins.

"My MediWizard exam is tomorrow," he confesses, as if this explains it all.

Pansy tries to hide a smile. The situation isn't very funny, really, but it amuses her none the less. Maybe because she hasn't had a smile to hide in months, and it just seems so odd and inconceivable that her first grin in ages would happen in Justin Finch-Fletchley's disorganized flat.

"Well, you wouldn't happen to need any help studying, would you?" The offer is not premeditated, it slips of Pansy's lips without any warning at all.

Justin looks as shocked as she does, but she can't help the thrill that runs through her body when he says, "Yes."

And somehow it's Justin's couch that she ends up on, Justin's shoulder that she bumps with her own, and his bed that she wakes up in the next morning. It makes no logical sense—she's a pureblood and a Slytherin, he's a Muggle-born and a Hufflepuff—but there's no way she can imagine it being another way.

It's Justin that she brings home to meet her parents, and damn the rest.

iii.

Pansy hasn't seen any of her friends—not Draco or Greg or Millicent—since the final battle. No one's called or written or dropped by to visit. She doesn't wonder about Draco; she's seen him hanging around outside of Fortescue's with the Greengrass girl, and the Goyles are finished, but she does wonder about Millicent.

That's why she ends up at the Bulstrode estate in August, out of honest concern and curiosity. She rings the doorbell.

Millicent answers, looking wan and tired. She's wearing a long, black cloak that shadows her face, and her voice sounds cracked when she says, "Pansy."

Pansy blinks. "Millicent, how are you? You haven't—"

"I haven't what? Called? Oh, sorry, I was busy with my chores," she mocks in a voice dripping with sarcasm.

This behavior is strange, and it makes Pansy even more curious. "What's wrong?" she asks.

This seems to set her off. "What's _wrong_?" she repeats, her voice raising an octave. "What's _wrong_? What do you think's wrong, Parkinson?"

She reaches up and pulls off her hood. Pansy's eyes widen and she has to stifle a gasp or a wince. Long, ragged scars cover her face, pulling down the corner of her mouth and her eye. They're awful, jagged and pink with dried blood at the edges, and Pansy can't suppress a deep breath.

"I really don't need this," snaps Millicent before Pansy can speak, and then she mumbles, "cowards with no scars."

"I'm not," mumbles Pansy, stung by the words. Millicent turns back and looks her straight in the eye.

"You are. You ran away. You didn't fight. You're why all Slytherins have a bad reputation."

She shuts the door in her face.

Pansy stands, frozen, on the doorstep. The accusation hurts—more than the stares or the averted gazes—and she aches to deny it.

"I'm not," she repeats stubbornly, firmly. But the only person she has to convince is herself.

iv.

She's twenty-two when her first child is born, a daughter that she and Justin name Iris. She has her mother's blonde hair and her father's gray eyes, and she's perfect.

"She's not getting a hyphenated last name, is she?" asks Justin when they bring her home from the hospital.

Pansy, tired as she is, laughs when she imagines her daughter getting the name "Parkinson-Finch-Fletchley."

"That would be cruel," she says. "Of course not."

But she watches her daughter sleep, peaceful and innocent and pure, and her heart fills with unbearable love. She'll never have to see the pain of war reflected across her face, tears in her eyes over the loss of a loved one.

She lifts her up and kisses her, drinking in her scent, nuzzling her face against hers. This makes it official: the war is over, and victory is sweet.

xxx

Well, that's it for chapter one. I think it was sweet. I've never liked Pansy, but she and Justin should be canon. XD It would be awesome. Also, I'm sorry for all of the rebuilding themes lately. We're studying Reconstruction in US History. It's not my fault. Anyway, review and make me happy!


	2. Lavender Brown

Here's chapter two of _world made new. _This one's Lavender's. I'm not sure who the other three will be—I'm trying to do one from each house, and I think I'm going to do Susan Bones and Hannah…or maybe Sally-Anne Perks. I don't know. But enjoy. The title is from the Sum 41 song "With Me."

i.

_bleed my heart out_

It's hard being a werewolf, period, Lavender reflects, before the war or after. It's not something anyone can tell just by looking at you, of course, but sometimes it just seems so plain to her she wonders how anybody can _not _see it.

That's not the hardest part by the least. The transformations trump the embarrassment easily. And it's not even just the pain—the feeling that she's ripping her own body inside, twisting and flipping and jerking keeping in time with the agonizing spasms—it's the feeling of having no control whatsoever. Lavender doesn't know whether she'd be able to stop herself, even if she wanted to kill someone. Her best friend.

But that's one thing she doesn't have to worry about, because Parvati is already dead.

But the worst part—the very, very worst part, worse than the transformations and the shame and the worry—is the feeling she gets just from knowing that she's a monster. The feeling of being a pariah, an outsider. And maybe she's doing it to herself, maybe she's hiding herself away, but it's the only way to keep them safe. To keep them all safe. Really, why does her pleasure mean so much more than other peoples' _lives? _She's seen enough death to last her for eternity.

She can't look at herself in the mirror anymore. She doesn't go out for drinks on Friday nights like someone celebrating the beginning of a post-war era. Not because she's too depressed from the loss of so many friends, but because she doesn't deserve to. She's a monster, and she has the scars on her back to prove it.

Lavender doesn't see how this could get any worse. It's the feeling she gets walking down the street, and even if no one notices her, she feels like their gazes are burning right through her skin. It's the feeling she gets when she visits Parvati or Terry or Ernie's grave.

But the most awful feeling of all is when envy sears through her when staring at the engraved gray stones—that could have been her, dead and decaying in the ground, and from where she's standing, the option looks preferable.

And then she starts to cry because, really, she's a selfish, weak-minded little girl wrapped up in a woman's scarred body.

ii.

Lavender turns down Hannah's offer to work at the Leaky, because it involves too much face-to-face interaction. _Hi hello how's your evening what would you like okay that's five galleons two sickles thank you come again_—she doesn't think she can take it. Putting on a cheerful front is Hannah's place, not hers.

So she gets a job as a secretary. Typing and taking notes and copying and organizing and licking stamps—it's boring enough to put a person to sleep, but it's easy. Rehearsed. Every day is the same. No surprises, no person-to-person, face-to-face.

Or, it is until Seamus Finnigan becomes the new Juriswizard intern. When he first walks into the door, Lavender is curious—she peers out of her cubicle to get a closer look at him, squinting because _he just looks so familiar, _and then he talks, and it's that Irish accent that whispered sweet nothings into her ear the night of the Yule Ball—

She freezes like a rabbit and then bolts, pulling back inside on her rolling chair and shuffling off into the corner, praying that he won't notice her. Like she could be so lucky.

Of course, in that next minute, he's peering over the top—he's grown quite exceptionally—of her cubicle and saying, "Lavender?"

And she's swearing under her breath and turning around and putting on a fake smile and saying, "Seamus!" with equally fake enthusiasm.

"I haven't seen you since…" he brushes hair out of his eyes, "well, you know."

She nods. She knows.

"How about getting a drink tonight? After work?"

Before thinking, she blurts out, "Yes!" because a drink with an old friend is what she's been dying for—for a bloody long time—but she wouldn't let herself have. And now that he's offering…

His grin widens. "Great."

And when he leaves, she slams her head against her desk, because really, what was she thinking?

iii.

But she does get that drink. She and Seamus walk to a small pub at the end of the block, and they talk along the way, about everything—Harry and those bloody idiots in the Pureblood Restoration Party and how bloody _irritating _Joey from accounting is. But they avoid the subject of the war like the plague.

Every time there's a stretch of silence, Lavender wants to tell him—wants to tell him so badly, she needs someone to know, and yet she doesn't, but all the while she just yearns for acceptance—the battle raging within her is miserable.

And so, since stupid outbursts seem to be the order of the day, before Seamus even finishes describing his new broomstick, she says, "I'm a werewolf."

He blinks and freezes, not moving for what feels like hours. And finally when Lavender, blushing fiercely and tears stinging at her eyes, grabs her purse and starts to get up, he grabs her hand to stop her. And then pulls her down and kisses her.

She leans toward him and she's not sorry at all that she said it. This, finally, is the kind of acceptance she's been waiting for.

iv.

Compelled by this, Lavender goes to visit Hannah at the Leaky. It's crowded and Hannah's busy cleaning tables, but she comes up to her friend and taps her own the shoulder and smiles.

And Hannah drops the rag and throws her arms around her, and again, this acceptance is all she'd imagined for months.

When the customers finally clear out, she and Hannah sit down at the empty bar and talk. First the _how's business going good fine thanks what are you up to these days _chit chat, and then onto the subject neither dared bring up: the war.

Lavender asks the question that she's been dying to. "Have you seen Padma lately?"

Hannah shakes her head. "No. Not at all since the…battle. I hear a little from Dean that he's seen her around Muggle London, but I haven't seen her myself at all."

She looks down at the table. The answer is nothing more or less than what she expected but it disappoints and saddens her.

And then she says the last thing she expected herself to say. "We should go see her."

Hannah nods. "That's just what I was thinking."

"Well, great minds _do _think alike."

"And three minds _are _better than one…" she hints.

v.

Lavender and Hannah arrive at Padma's doorstep at eight o'clock on the dot, the prearranged time. It takes letters and letters to organize this outing, but Lavender has been looking forward to it immensely.

Hannah rings the doorbell and they wait. Several seconds later, Padma appears, wearing a loose, long-sleeved, high-collared red dress and a fedora.

She wants to ask what this is all about—Padma, who has always been the least self-conscious person she knows, clearly covering herself up—why?

But she doesn't, because she knows it will be rude, but already the evening is seeming like less fun.

"You look nice," Hannah tries, fake cheerfulness in her voice. "Come on, let's go. I can use my discount at the Leaky."

Lavender smiles gently at Padma and puts her arm around her shoulders to hug her, but she jerks away. They only make it halfway down the street before she says,

"I can't do this."

Padma turns around and runs back inside.

vi.

On the anniversary of the war, Lavender goes to visit Parvati's grave—for the last time, and she doesn't doubt this, because it's finally time to let her friend go. She takes Seamus with her and the two hold hands as they walk towards the looming gray stone in the distance.

"You miss her a lot," he says; it's not a question. All Lavender can do is nod. Seamus is silent and she knows he's imagining, like she is, how it would be if it were Dean's grave they were visiting. If he were the one crying and she was the one comforting.

The selfish part of her still wishes it were the other way around. But there's nothing that can be done about it, so she sits down in front of the grave and reads the words she's already memorized.

The sun is setting before her.

Seamus holds her hand and kisses her and whispers those familiar, Irish-hinted sweet nothings in her ear—this helps, but only a little bit.

And then there's a sound behind her and she turns around. Padma, wearing a purple backless dress that bares her scars for the world to see, comes and sits beside her. Wisely, Lavender holds her tongue.

But she reaches to put her arm around her, and this time, she lets her.

xxx

I didn't like this one as much as the last one, but still, it was fun. Anyway, review—I'd like to hear your thoughts.


	3. Hannah Abbott

_I'm so, so sorry this update took so long, but, like always, I've been super busy with other chaptered stories and my own original ideas. Anyway. Onto chapter three: Hannah Abbott. The title for this one comes from Lenka's song 'The Show.' Much love to Lenka for such a sweet, Hannah-like song. _

i.

_just a little girl _

It's hard to be cheerful after the war, Hannah reflects. It's easy enough to be happy-content, pleased—but to exude such feelings is an entirely different story. And although she _does _feel it's always been her lot in life to be the cheerful one, it's not always as easy as she makes it seem.

Maybe she's a little brave—not Gryffindor brave, not that messy, reckless brand—but brave in trying to be cheerful, walking into the Leaky every day with a smile on her face and refusing to let it fade even after rowdy customers splash Firewhiskey on her new blouse. She wears only black after that, but it's a necessary compromise, and she doesn't let it diminish her cheerfulness.

It's not always so easy to keep up that front when she sees her friends walking in. When it's strangers, she can disengage and forget about them, the way any good bartender should learn to do. But when it's people she knows—Lavender, who has a pet rabbit and a crush on Seamus, Seamus who has a crush on Lavender and then a little dog besides, and others with lives and homes and families and funny little quirks that Hannah can't help but remember with a wry smile—it takes a lot more effort to support that smile, and the feelings behind it.

And she feels guilty—because she hasn't suffered nearly as much as most people; she didn't lose anyone in her family and only one or two close friends. Her smile can't help but falter when she sees George Weasley's pathetic, broken expression, or Astoria Greengrass's tears and dead looks (even though she was a Slytherin and she's Draco Malfoy's fiancée, she deserves a little sympathy, because she lost her sister, after all). They're frequenters to the Leaky, and it's not easy to forget their faces.

Hannah still likes to drink tea and smile and hang out with Lavender and Tracy and Susan, but not in the same way as before, because Lavender's barely around and Tracy's ashamed to be seen, and Susan won't stop covering herself up. And it doesn't help that there's no Sally-Anne around to make inappropriate jokes and break the uncomfortable silences.

But Hannah refuses to cry—she let it out at the many funerals she attended and now it's time to _move on. _

ii.

Saturday night at the Leaky is always busy, and Hannah has her work cut out for her. There are tables to attend to, drinks to make, and all the while smiles to keep up for appearance's sake.

She's bustling from the bar to the corner-most table after an incident with a spilled drink that resulted in one of the waitresses, Bethelda, sprouting feathers, and she stops dead in her tracks at the lonely figure sipping Firewhiskey alone.

Hannah doesn't even recognize him at first, but it goes against her baser instincts to leave such a lonely-looking person off to sulk and be miserable, and that's truly what it looks like, but it isn't until she gets closer that the lonely boy begins to look familiar.

"Neville?"

He looks up, not surprised to see her, but not particularly happy, either. "Hello, Hannah." The words sound so cold and detached, and she's taken aback.

She blinks and plasters on the biggest smile she can manage. "Fancy another Firewhiskey? It's on me, don't worry about it," she adds, when he reaches into his pocket.

He nods once, and she bustles back behind the counter to get one for him, pours it into a glass, and sits down beside him. It's very unwise—she can already Bethelda pouting at her apparent abandonment from near table six—but Neville is, after all, Neville, and she can't forget this.

"So what are you up to, lately?" she asks.

He raises an eyebrow and glances around at the crowded pub, obviously insinuating that she's slacking off. She doesn't mind the insinuation, because she _is _slacking off, but this is infinitely more important than a Butterbeer spill in the bathroom.

"Not much," he finally answers, with hopeless abandon.

"Working?"

He shakes his head miserably, and Hannah instantly feels bad for asking, because it's clear that he's rather unemployed. She smiles sympathetically.

"How's…what's your friend's name, again? Luna. How's Luna?"

"Off in New Zealand searching for Crumple-Horned Snorkacks," he answers promptly, as if this is the most normal thing in the world.

And then it occurs to her: Neville is impossibly, unbearably _lonely. _He never had many friends at Hogwarts, and this admission of Luna's whereabouts comes hinted with clear regret.

Hannah can't help what she does then—she tells herself it's in her nature, but really, there's something neither in her brain nor her well-developed emotional side telling her to do this—she reaches over and places her hand on his.

iii.

Hannah likes Thursdays at the Leaky best. It's not too crowded nor too empty, just the right number of tables not to be bored, and her Thursday guests are always memorable. She can name, off the top of her head, every single one, their preferred drinks, and what table they like to sit at.

This particular Thursday, however, Hannah is interviewing a nice young lady named Amanda for a waitress position. Amanda's pretty and calm and her nails are nice and straight, but she doesn't think she has the gall to keep up a smile the way you have to learn to do.

After the interview and informing Amanda that, unfortunately, the job was not for her, Hannah does a quick headcount of her guests, and notices one more than usual, and the head at which she's staring has shaggy dark hair.

She makes her way over to the table and sits down. "Nice to see you again," she says, smiling up at him because he has grown _quite _a bit.

Neville, for the first time since she's seen him, gives a small, sad-looking smile back.

"What is it today?" she asks, trying not to be too prying, and yet she has to admit: she's awfully curious.

He shakes his head. "Nothing." And then he mutters something that sounds like "job interview" and "Hogwarts."

"You tried out for a teaching position at Hogwarts?" She widens her eyes, surprised. "That's brilliant!"

He chuckles humorlessly. "Not really. I don't think I did very well."

"What position?"

"Herbology."

"You're excellent at Herbology," she assures him, "I'm sure you'll get it. Positive affirmation," she advises, laughing a little.

And he laughs, too, but she still sees sadness flash behind his eyes. But she thinks that Neville is a little brave, too—just for being here and trying to live at all.

iii.

On her day off, Hannah likes to go visit Lavender and Padma. They meet up at Padma's flat and then go out—wearing backless dresses and lots of ridiculous makeup and hair-curling spells, and flirt with the boys that hang around Fortescue's, though leaving immediately when Draco Malfoy and Astoria Greengrass show up.

This time, though, when Hannah rings the doorbell, she doesn't find two smiling girls with sparkling dresses and bright eyes; she sees too sullen girls still in sweatpants and t-shirts, sitting forlornly on the couch with glasses of Scotch in hand.

"What's wrong?" she demands immediately, feeling shocked and dismayed at the quick breaking of their tradition.

Lavender shakes her head. "Who do you think we're kidding, Hannah? What's the point in going out and acting like stupid, silly little girls? We're not girls anymore."

"Then what are we? Women? We're only eighteen," she says, frowning.

Padma speaks up this time. "No one who survived that is a child anymore. We can't keep thinking about this, but there's no way we can forget, either."

She senses that this is more serious than she thought, and Hannah draws herself up to her full height. "You don't forget," she says. "You _never _forget, but you don't think about it every waking minute. You don't let it _control _you. That's just how it has to be if you ever want to survive, and maybe you have to be fucking cheerful, even if it kills you, because it makes other people believe that there's still something left to live for."

When she finishes her spiel, Lavender and Padma are staring up at her, ashen-faced, and looking slightly ashamed.

"You mean like you?" she asks in a whisper.

And then she can't help it—Hannah smiles. "Yes," she says. "Like me."

iv.

When Hannah walks into the Leaky the next day, it's not bustling and happy like it usually is, but instead, there's a somber atmosphere about it. She bites her lip, but she can't let her face slip into a frown—not when Lavender's sitting a few tables away and definitely still remembers how she verbally abused her at Padma's flat.

And to make matters worse, she doesn't see Neville anywhere.

She has to admit, she's grown used to his company, however depressed and forlorn. She _likes _cheering people up, and Neville is a special case. Why, she's not sure. But she knows that he is, in some way or another.

"Looking for someone?" asks Lavender, when she bustles by with a tray of drinks.

"Nope," she responds quickly, steadying a glass of Butterbeer before it can topple over and spill all over the newly-painted floor.

It's quite the day for the Leaky—she's raking in a huge profit from the somber customers, but the money feels tainted somehow, as if somehow poisoned by their sadness. In Hannah's opinion, a bar should be happy and crowded and noisy, and this isn't how the Leaky appears in her imagination.

She's trying to get a quick break to go outside for a Butterbeer, but Bethelda is already giving her nasty looks, so she tries to hang in there.

And then, out of the corner of her eye, she glimpses a familiar figure—shaggy hair and dark robes and (what's that?) a smile?

"I got it," he says breathlessly when he reaches her. "Hannah, the job—I got it." His face is red from the cold, but twisted into a huge, exuberant grin that makes her heart flutter in an unfamiliar and not entirely unpleasant way.

And she doesn't care who sees, and what Lavender thinks; she throws her arms around him and kisses him.

v.

They all go out the next Saturday. Hannah and Neville, Lavender and Seamus, and Padma and Dean. Lavender teases Seamus by flirting with a boy outside of Fortescue's, and Hannah dares her to try some of her tricks on Draco Malfoy. Then that's the end of that, because he hears and gives them a dirty look.

But the stars are glittering above—there's no Dark Mark in the sky and everything is clear, if a little cold for October. And for a moment, it's easy enough to forget that there was ever a war—but she doesn't, because you don't forget. Not ever.

xxx

_There! Done! I have to say, it was fun exploring Hannah's character; I never thought about her much, but I do like the idea of her and Neville together. Anyway, review! _


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